“trender,” said duke, unexpectedly after a silence the next morning, as we loitered over breakfast, “pay attention to one thing. i don’t ask you for a fragment of your past history and don’t want to hear anything about it. you’ll say, as yet you haven’t offered me your confidence, and quite right, too, on the top of our short acquaintance. but don’t ever offer it to me, you understand? our friendship starts from sunrise, morning by morning, and lasts the day. i don’t mean it shall be the less true for that; i have a theory, that’s all.”
“what is it, straw?”
“sufficient for the day, it’s called. providence has elected to give us, not one existence, but so many or few, each linked to the next by an insensibility and intercalated as a whole between appropriate limits.”
“i don’t quite understand.”
“wait a bit. each of these existences has its birth and death, and should be judged apart from the others; each is pronounced upon in succession by one’s familiar spirit and its minutes pigeon-holed and docketed above there. when the chain of evidence, for or against, is complete, up these links are gathered in a heap and weighed in both sides of the balance.”
“it sounds more plausible than it is, i think,” said i, with frank discourtesy. “the acts of one day may influence those of the next—or interminably.”
“that’s your lookout; but they needn’t necessarily. with each new birth comes a new capacity for looking at things in their right proportions.”
“how far do you push your theory?”
“as far as you like. i’d have, all the world over, a daily revival of systems.”
“government—law?”
“certainly. of everything.”
“then justice, injustice, vindictiveness, must all revive, too.”
“no. they’re recalled; they don’t revive.”
“but must a criminal, for instance, be allowed to escape because they have failed to catch him the day he did the deed?”
“that’s exactly it. it makes no difference. he couldn’t atone here for an act committed by him during another existence. but that particular minute goes pretty red into its pigeon-hole, you may be sure.”
“oh, it’s wild nonsense,” i laughed. “you can’t possibly be consistent.”
“can’t i? look here, you are my friend yesterday, and to-day, and always, i hope. i judge you daily on your merits, yet, for all i know, you may have committed murder in one of your past existences?”
the blood went back upon my heart. then a great longing awoke in me to tell all to this self-reliant soul and gain comfort of my sorrow. but where was the good in the broad face of his theory?
“well,” i said, with a sigh, “i’ve done things at least i bitterly repent of.”
“that’s the conventional way of looking at it. repentance in this won’t avail a former existence. past days of mine have had their troubles, no doubt, but this day i have before me unclouded and to do what i like with.”
“well, what shall we do with it?” said i. “i hand it over to you to make it a happiness for me. i dare say we shall find plenty of sorrows between sunrise and evening to give it a melancholy charm.”
“rubbish!” cried my friend. “cant, cant, cant, ever to suppose that sorrow is necessary to happiness! we mortals, i tell you, have an infinite capacity for delight; given health, spiritual and bodily, we could dance in the sunbeams for eternity and never reach a surfeit of pleasure.”
“duke,” said i—“may i call you duke?”
“of course.”
“it puzzles me where you got—i don’t mean offense—only i can’t help wondering——”
“how i came to have original thoughts and a grammatical manner of speech? look here——” he held up his stained fingers—“aren’t these the hands of a man of letters?”
“and a man of action,” i said, with a laugh. “but——”
“it’s no use, renny. i can’t look further back than this morning.”
“you can recall, you know. you don’t deny each existence that capacity?”
“perhaps i could; but to what advantage? to shovel up a whole graveyard of sleeping remembrances to find the seed of one dead nettle that thrusts its head through? no, thank you. besides, if it comes to that, i might put the same question to you.”
“oh, i can easily answer it. i get all my way of speaking from my father first, and, secondly, because i love books.”
he looked at me oddly.
“you’re a modest chicken,” he said. “but i should like to meet your father.”
i could not echo his wish.
“still,” he went on, “i will tell you, there was a little inexperience of mankind in your wonder. i think—i don’t refer to myself, of course—that no man in the world is more interesting to talk with than the skilled mechanic who has an individuality and a power of expressing it in words. he is necessarily a man of cultivation, and an ‘h’ more or less in his vocabulary is purely an accident of his surroundings.”
at this moment mr. cringle tapped at the door and walked into the room.
“i hope i see you ro-bust, gentlemen? and how do you like this village of ours, mr. trender?”
“it’s dirty after winton,” said i.
“ah,” he said, condescendingly; “the centers of such enormous forces must naturally rise some dust. it’s a proud thing, sir, to contribit one’s peck to the total. i feel it in my little corner here.”
“why,” said i, “you surprise me, mr. cringle. i’m only an ignorant country lad, of course; but it seems to me you are quite a remarkable figure.”
he gave an extra twist to his mustache and sniggered comfortably. “well,” he said, “it is not for me to contradict you—eh, mr. straw?”
“certainly not,” said duke; “why, you are famous for your deeds.”
“very good, mr. straw, and perhaps, as you kindly mean it in the double sense. you mightn’t think it, but it wants some knowledge of the law’s mazes to turn a rough draft into a hold-fast agreement or indenture.”
“and you can do that?”
“i flatter myself, mr. trender, that it’ll want a microscoptic eye to find flaws in my phraseology.”
he thrust back his head and expanded his chest.
“but i’m overlooking my errand,” said he. “the young lady, as has called before, mr. straw, rung me down just now for a message to you.”
“oh, what was it?”
“she wanted to know if you was game for a walk and she’d be waiting under the market till half after nine.”
“very well,” and mr. cringle took himself off.
“it’s dolly mellison,” said duke to me. “we often go for a sunday tramp together.”
“well, don’t stop for me, if you want to go.”
“we’ll both go—why not?”
“oh, not for anything. fancy my intruding myself on her.”
“i’ll answer she’ll not object,” said my companion, and again i was half conscious of something unusual in his tone.
“but you might,” said i.
“not a bit of it. why should i? we’re not betrothed, you know.”
he answered with a laugh, and pointed, or seemed to point at his twisted lower limbs. “you wouldn’t believe me, would you, if i told you she expects you?” he added.
“oh, very well,” said i, “if you put it in that way.”
we found dolly standing under the piazza of covent garden market. she made no movement toward us until we were close upon her, and then she greeted us with a shy wriggle and a little blush. she was very daintily dressed, with a fur tippet about her throat, and looked as pretty as a young hebe.
“oh,” she said, “i didn’t suppose you would come, too, mr. trender.”
“there!” i cried to duke, with perfect good nature. “i told you i should be in the way.”
“nonsense!” he said. “miss mellison didn’t mean it like that, did you, dolly?”
“didn’t i? you see how he answers for me, mr. trender?” and she turned half from him with a rosy pout.
“come!” i cried gayly. “i’ll risk it. i do not believe you’ve the heart to be cruel, miss mellison.”
“thank you for the surname, and also for telling me i’m heartless.”
“you can’t be that as long as mine goes a-begging,” i said, impudently.
she peeped up at me roguishly from under her long lashes and shook her head.
“come,” said duke, impatiently; “what are we going to do? don’t let’s stand chattering here all day.”
“i’ll tell you,” i cried in a sudden reckless flush of extravagance. “aren’t there pretty places on the thames one can get to from here?”
“oh, plenty,” said duke, dryly, “if one goes by train.”
“then let’s go and make a pleasant water party of it.”
he shook his head with a set of the lips.
“those are rare treats,” he said. “our sort can’t afford such jinks except after a deal of saving.”
“i don’t want you to,” said i. “it’s my business and you’re to come as my guests.”
“oh, nonsense,” he said, sharply; “we can’t do that.”
“please speak for yourself, mr. straw,” said dolly. i had noticed her eyes shine at the mere prospect. “if mr. trender is so kind as to offer, and can afford it, i’m sure, i, for one, don’t intend to disappoint him.”
“can he afford it?” said duke, doggedly.
“i shouldn’t propose it if i couldn’t,” said i, very much on the high horse.
“of course you wouldn’t,” said dolly. “i wonder at you, mr. straw, for being so insulting.”
“very well,” said duke, “i meant it for the best; but let’s be off. i’m for a shallop in arcady, with pleasure in a pork-pie hat (it’s very pretty, dolly) at the helm.”
we went down to richmond by train, and duke—good fellow that he was—made a merry company of us. if he felt any soreness over his rebuff he hid it out of sight most effectually.
it was early in november—a beautiful, sparkling morning, and the river bore a fairish sprinkling of pleasure craft on its silvery stretches.
we were neither of us great oarsmen and at first made but poor way, owing to a tendency duke of the iron sinews showed to pulling me completely round. but presently we got into a more presentable swing and fore-reached even upon a skiff or two whose occupants had treated us to some good-humored chaff upon our starting.
“woa!” cried duke. “this pulling is harder than pulling proofs, renny. let’s stop by the bank and rest a bit.”
we ran the boat’s nose aground, fastened her painter to a stump and settled down for a talk.
“enjoying yourself, dolly?” asked duke, mopping his forehead.
“yes, of course—thanks to mr. trender.”
“this is a fine variety on our walks, isn’t it?”
“oh, they’re jolly enough when you’re in a good temper.”
“am i not always?”
“oh, i don’t know. sometimes you say things i don’t understand.”
“see there, renny,” cried duke. “if i express myself badly she calls me cross.”
“it isn’t that,” said the girl. “i know i’m ignorant and you’re clever, but you seem to read me and then say things out of yourself that have nothing to do with me—just as if i was a book and you a—what do they call it?—cricket or something.”
we both laughed aloud.
“oh, dolly,” said duke, “what pretty imp taught you satire? are you a book to mr. trender?”
“oh, no! he talks what i can understand.”
“better and better! but take comfort, renny; you’re downed in sweet company.”
“hush,” said dolly; “it’s sunday.”
she dabbled her slender hand in the water and drew it out quickly.
“oh,” she cried, “it’s cold. i hope we shan’t be upset. can you swim, mr. trender?”
“yes, like a duck.”
“that’s a comfort, if i fall in. mr. straw, here, can’t.”
“i’m built top-heavy,” said duke, “but i’d try to save you, dolly.”
the girl’s eyes shone with a momentary remorseful pity.
“i know you would,” she said, softly; “you aren’t one to think about yourself, duke. how i wish i could swim! i don’t believe there can be anything in the world like getting that medal they give you for saving people from drowning. have you ever saved any one, mr. trender?”
oh, gentle hand to deal so cruel a stroke! for a moment my smoldering sense of guilt flamed up blood-red.
“no, no,” i said, with a forced laugh. “i’m not like duke. i do think of myself. i’m afraid.”
we lapsed into silence, out of which came dolly’s voice presently, murmuring a queer little doggerel song that seemed apt to her childish nature:
“‘who owns that house on yonder hill?’
said the false black knight to the pretty little child on the road.
‘it’s my father’s and mine,’
said the pretty little child scarce seven years old.
“‘will you let me in?’
said the false black knight to the pretty little child on the road.
‘oh, no; not a step,’
said the pretty little child scarce seven years old.
“‘then i wish you deaf and dumb,’
said the false black knight to the pretty little child on the road.
‘and i wish you the same, with a blister on your tongue!’
said the pretty little child scarce seven years old.”
“where on earth did you learn that?” said duke, with a laugh, as dolly ceased, her eyes dreaming out upon the shining river.
“i don’t know. mother used to sing it, i think, when i was a little girl.”
“we must question her,” said i.
“mother’s dead,” said dolly.
i could have bitten out my tongue.
duke again exerted himself to put matters on a comfortable footing.
“dolly and i are both orphans,” said he; “babes in old ripley’s wood.”
“and i am the remorseless ruffian,” i broke in.
“all right. you didn’t know, of course. look at that girl on the bank, with the crinoline; she might be riding a hobby-horse.”
“ain’t she a beauty?” said dolly, enviously. her own subscribing to the outrageous fashion then fortunately in its decay was limited to her slender means and the necessities of her work.
“you don’t mean to say you admire her?” said i.
“don’t i, mr. trender? just as she’d admire me if i was dressed like that.”
“heaven forbid, dolly. i won’t call you dolly if you call me mr. trender.”
“won’t you, now? upon my word, you’ve got the impudence of twenty.”
“look here,” said duke, “i’m for paddling on. i don’t know your views as to dinner, mr. renalt, but mine are getting pretty vociferous.”
“my idea is to pull on till we sight a likely place, mr. duke straw.”
we rowed up past kingston, a cockney town we all fought shy of, and on by grassy reaches as far as hampton bridge, where we disembarked. here was a pleasant water-side inn, with a lawn sloping down to the embankment, and, sitting in its long coffee-room, we made a hearty dinner and a merry company. dolly was flushed and happy as a young naiad when we returned to our boat, and she rippled with laughter and sweetness.
